


Red Candles

by misslonelyhearts



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, The Chantry, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/pseuds/misslonelyhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from a kink meme prompt asking for "riding."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

He’s spent so much visual energy watching Hawke work a lock.  For years it was a simple thing to devote his eyes to when they wanted to steal over the rogue’s belts where they rested above his ass.  Lockpicking was something he could openly admire without betraying too much; the synergy of fingers and wrists, the smattering of dark hair across the hand, and the corded bands of muscle jumping along his forearm.  Despite how clever Anders considered this tactic, Varric had noticed.  A few days before Isabela, actually.  If Garrett ever saw how they smirked every time he bent to a locked chest, he never mentioned it.

Now, holding a diminutive ball of light for Hawke, casting it over the well-scraped brass plate of the Chantry’s kitchen door, Anders can let his gaze wander freely.  He’s tasted those fingers, felt the depth of their tenderness and quick response.  Or, not so quick, if he let himself consider the weight of the past three years.  But, it’s safe to appreciate Hawke’s ass now, and how perfectly it marries the curve of his back with the flow of his thighs.  Old habits prevail.  And the mage will never _not_ watch those fingers with careful hunger.

“Are a few red candles worth all this?”  He shifts on his feet, looking down the alley.  “If anyone has the coin to buy roomfuls of romantic lighting, it’s you, love.”

“The romance will be so much better if I know they’re _Chantry_ candles.”  When he’s done speaking, his tongue appears back in the corner of his mouth.  Anders crouches beside him, catching Garrett’s enthusiasm.

“In that case, please hurry.”  He whispers huskily, watching the ink stains on his fingertips disappear beneath the dark hair and the sudden flush of Garrett’s ear. 

“Keep it up,” groans Hawke, leaning into the touch, “And we won’t even make it inside.”

But, they do make it inside.  Anders extinguishes the light and follows (always following, and happy for the view).   They move silently through the kitchen, up a narrow set of stairs and past the sleeping quarters off one landing.  Pausing higher in the stairwell as the passage creaks beneath their feet, Hawke reaches back in the dark to grip Anders’s neck and pull him flush for a kiss.  Lips vie for control, Hawke ceding his portion to the kind of need Anders can’t help in this newness

The kiss deepens, and the dark stairwell sends their sounds back to them.  Anders moans, tight in his throat, when Hawke palms him through his trousers.  In return, the rogue hisses jovially when their hips collide.

“I. . .” Anders breathes against Garrett’s teeth, fingers curling into the criss-crossing belts.  He swallows, wishing for a little more light.  To see the heat reflected in the eyes sliding over his face.  “Let’s get out of here.”

“Up for a better idea?”

“Maker, _yes_.”

“Come on.”  And Hawke takes the remaining steps two at a time. Anders the same despite his growing hardness.

They emerge in the main hall, just beneath the altar.  Above them, Andraste glowers, gilded face shrouded by the Chantry’s late-night dimness.  Sketching along the wall, Hawke scans for roving sisters or sneaking orphans.  Finding none, he motions for Anders to follow and they cross quickly to the cluster of candles on the floor.

While Anders keeps watch, Garrett fills an unfurled sack with every crimson candle he can find.  How the man can focus on anything but their kiss is beyond Anders.  He’s watching those hands again, placing them on his body in the drawn-out scenes he’s been replaying in his mind for days.  Predictably, it makes him harder still.

“Patience, love.”

His eyes snap to Hawke, standing with his bag of waxy loot, eyes sweeping upward from the open front of the mage’s coat.  Anders blushes, but only once he sees the answering bulge building in a sleek line in Garrett’s leathers.

“Never my strong suit,” croaks Anders, licking his lips around a smile.

Hawke kisses him again, splayed palm on his chest, burning through what’s threadbare but suddenly stifling.  Then he’s gone, joining the shadows in a flash, whisking down the long hallway toward the locked doors flanking the Chantry foyer.

Anders releases a sigh, and glances up at Andraste before trotting down the hall to where Garrett slips into the unlocked door.

It’s dark in the disused stairwell, and once he closes the door behind him, Anders  can’t see much beyond his nose.  A warm hand closes on his wrist, pulling, and he finds himself drawn into a soft circle of bluish light and the chitter of leather and vials that press against his belly.

“I want you here, on the stairs.”  Garrett murmurs, too hard and perfectly crisp against Anders’s jaw, one hand snaking behind his head.  He follows with a kiss, then another, in a wet chain drawing back to his mouth.  Heat pours into his groin, and Anders devours the mouth dancing over his lips.

“Yes.”  He manages, fingers tugging on his own laces.  The leather breeches bump him, and Garrett’s head drops to the mage’s shoulder, hips grinding under the guidance of sliding palms. Anders grips him, bearded jaw and plump rear, pressing his lips to the pulse beneath stubble. “Maker.  Give me your mouth.”

Wordlessly, Hawke slithers to the stairs, sitting back in the milky fall of light from the upper stories.  With a finger hooked in the open trousers, he pulls Anders forward.  The mage braces a foot on the step beside Garrett and draws out his cock, not missing a twitch of each muscle in the face below him.  It’s all heat and unbelievable love, and it’s done more to transform Anders than even Justice had accomplished. Hawke’s hands cup him, and push his shirt aside.  Anders takes in the offered wink, the moistened lips, and his hands don’t tremble when he slides his cock into Hawke’s waiting mouth.

The sound, and indeed the lack of sound that makes each laving stroke even louder, is intoxicating.  Anders lets his head drop back, eyes narrowing as he focuses on the tight staircase leading up, tight lips stretched over him, and he grips the railing.  The tongue riding the underside of his dick undulates.

“Fuck.”  He wants to say _you’re gorgeous_.  Instead, his right hand flutters on his thigh before cupping Garrett’s head, thumb pressing the spot between beard and ear.  His cock disappears by enthralling degrees, slick and red and framed by dark hair.

Hawke throws an arm around Anders’s waist, mouth sinking further and withdrawing.  In the cool light of the stairwell, his eyelashes cast shadows over his cheeks as he works.  When Anders moans at the blurring quickness of it, Hawke looks up, letting the fat tip linger on his lip.

“No?  Not good.” His voice is thick, heavy, and he kisses the cockhead briefly.

Startled, Anders shakes his head.  He chuckles, hips twitching, “You’re amazing.”

“I’m horny.  And I work better under pressure.” Hawke whispers, and he strokes Anders absently while he speaks.  “Take your coat off.”

When he hands it to the rogue, Anders watches the small moment of heart-stopping sweetness with his hand drawing back lazily on his cock.  Garrett turns the coat inside out, protecting the feathers, before folding it gently into a bundle.  He tucks it behind his lower back, against the riser of the step.

“Come here.”  He says, finally, unbuckling his belts. Anders needs little more invitation than that.  Hands pull him forward and slide his trousers lower so they drift past his knees.  “Sit, love.  And we’ll see how quick and quiet we can be.”

“I can’t promise quiet,” breathes Anders, bending for a kiss, and to join Garrett’s hands where they pluck the rigid line of flesh from his leathers. “But with this. . .in this place. . .quick is a given.”


	2. Chapter 2

He strokes Hawke, two palms dancing front to back briefly over the swollen head, and then he hears the clink of vials.

“Turn around.” Garrett smiles against Anders’s mouth, knees coming down so the mage can seat himself.

With a hand on the staircase railing, Anders straddles the flex of thighs straining beneath him, loose pants pulling against Hawke’s shins.  He’s about to turn, to ask something idiotic or to seek another kiss, when he feels a clever digit part his ass.  It seeks with firm quickness, slippery and warm.  Dimly, he spies the open pocket of the belt on the steps, with its cache of vials exposed.  “Andraste’s ass.  You think of everything.”

As he pushes down onto the probing finger, Anders feels Hawke’s forehead come to rest on his back, soft chuckle warming the linen and skin beneath.  “I think of you.”

“Maker. Oh fuck,” hisses Anders, head dropping forward.  The finger is joined by a second, and his legs are shaking, hips poised to drop, craving depth and fullness.  His cock drools, heavy and swaying somewhere in the shadow cast by his body as he pants and jerks.  It’s just fingers, just the pressure of an unsure hand in this unsure place, but Anders can feel the way Garrett’s breath courses across his back, free hand curling over the thigh atop his own. And it’s like burning alive.  As he drops lower, swirling muscles on the fingers that aren’t enough, he thinks of Andraste and tries not to laugh.

“ _Anders_.  Wait.  Ah, fuck.”  Hawke massages inside him, voice hoarse, head lolling between the mage’s shoulder blades.  Beneath the swing of his balls, Anders feels a cock rubbing, filling the wrong space . . .and maybe the right one too.  The sultry, halting voice against his spine speaks up. “Lean forward, sweet.”

He nods, feet planted, weight settling in his legs a second before other weight, delicious, thickly upthrust weight, presses into him.  Hawke pauses, one hand poised and guiding, the other floating like a bird up and over Anders’s shoulder.  Waiting.  Pulling gently, and waiting.  If he felt like he was on fire before, Anders wonders if trade tongue even has a word for the sear that licks him furiously from within now.  As with the fingers, it’s not enough.  The bulbous head of Garrett’s dick makes its inexorable climb inside, and Anders forgets to breath.  Only knows how to feel his whole body condense to the silvery stretch of pain sinking into pleasure, the smallest portion of pride and love he owns. . .given over by aching increments.  With a shuddering breath sent upward into the dusty stairwell, he begins, in earnest, to ride the cock below him.

There’s creaking in the stairs, and some in their hips.  The railing under his clenched hand jerks every time Anders levers himself up, and drifts down again.  It’s a fraction of the movement they both need, Garrett only able to lean back as far as the step allows, but neither cares.  In the places where the dark stairwell is clothed in dusty light, Anders can turn and see him truly smile.  And though he’s supposed to be watching the door, it’s so much better to watch over his shoulder as Hawke strains and grins when ass meets groin.

“Slower,” Garrett grits out, teeth clamping to match the sudden, steely grip on Anders’s hips.

“I warned you.” The mage teases, pulling the hand free to shape it around his cock.  He doesn’t slow. Instead, Anders follows the unbound thread of heat.  It speeds though his cock, roiling low in his balls, and he spreads himself a little wider, crashes a little more urgently into the lap beneath him, and moans with the indelicacy of his need.  Hawke complies, swearing in colorful, Ferelden fashion as he strokes a quicker rhythm. The fingers wrapped around him, the calloused thumb sweeping under the ridge of his cockhead at every pull, make Anders think of the lockpicks, and the slathered digits in his ass.   He feels trapped, plucked and open, and sheathed in sweat underneath what remains of his clothing. “Maker’s breath, just fucking finish me.” He whimpers, more to himself than anything.  And the sight of his dick cupped in Garrett’s hand rivals the exquisite sound of their hushed laughter for how it does the trick.

Anders comes to the vibration of Hawke grunting against his neck, and the sagging sway of his shirt catches most of the wetness.  They tilt backwards together, Garrett’s hips driving upward, hands devoting themselves to clutching Anders tightly to his chest.  Splayed on the staircase, cooling cock falling on his belly, the mage’s head rests against Hawke’s shoulder as the man pistons inside him like a thing possessed. Like this is how they always were; stubbled cheeks rasping together, breath huffing from slack lips. Anders allows himself to hope that ‘always’ might start now.

It’s the muscular tang of sex that’s familiar and yet new.  Nothing Anders has ever wanted in the way of touches, fervent kisses, and fucks that destroy him have frightened him as much as Garrett.  And fear has ever been where he lives.  But it’s how the rogue’s eyes turn everything into melted sunshine breaking over his skin that convinces Anders to believe his fear is unwarranted.  Smart, but unnecessary.

The twisting stairwell stretches above them, giving over the distant creak of rafters or floorboards or a sleep-muffled cough.  Anders tangles a hand, languid and searching, into the damp hair beside his own.  The rogue laughs again, a lunatic’s expression given faintly in his ear, and he thrusts so vehemently that Anders feels nothing less than owned.  Under their combined weight and movement, the stairs squeak in protest and it sounds like tittering mice.  His ass throbs, hips pulled roughly to seat him, still him, and a spiraling warmth suddenly presses deep within.  Garrett whines, and a soft thunk signals his head dropping to the stairs.  Anders feels lips on his temple, soothing as they lick away the sweat, and Garrett whispers, “I think I broke something.”

“Oh good.  It’s not just me.”  Anders gives a wistful, exhausted smile.  His eyes are closed, liquid heat seeps between their joined bodies, there are soft footsteps high above in the Chantry quarters, and he doesn’t give a nug’s ass.

“We need to move.  Now.” Garrett’s searching the stairwell, hips shifting beneath Anders.

They separate, Anders rolling forward and pulling up his trousers as he clomps a little too heavily down the last two steps toward the door.  He nearly trips over the bag of candles. Behind him, Hawke’s belts creak softly, and Anders take a moment’s pleasure in the exhausted whimper he hears as Garrett pulls himself back together.  For his part, Anders cracks the door to check the hallway, and enjoys the faint breeze whistling past his face.  “It’s clear.”

“Perfect.  Let’s go.”  Comes the voice behind him, the smell of him that’s also now _them_ , awkward bag of loot over one shoulder.  Before opening the door all the way, Anders turns in the miniscule space between their bodies.  He’s got nothing to offer at the moment.  Not to say he won’t always try, even with the faint ache in his ass and the spent laughter hitching in his chest.  Especially when Garrett doesn’t look impatient or worried.  He only looks at Anders like a fool in love.  It’s a picture the mage had thought he’d only ever see in his own glass each morning.  Anders cups Hawke’s face.

“Tell me we’ll come back for more when these are all burnt down?”

The bag hits the ground, and the door clacks shut under Anders’s weight as Garrett presses him into it.  Grinning lips and bodies matched for the exhilaration of more than theft and public spaces.  There are fingers sliding in the sweat at his neck.  Anders takes the tongue in his mouth as a good sign.  Mostly he just takes the tongue, and the lips, and every point where they are still touching from face to toes, and echoes it back again to Garrett with a whimper.  The rogue breaks from him, picking up the sack.  “You’re a terrible influence.  I should pray before we leave.”

“If you’re going to be on your knees, love. . .” Anders offers, ever helpful, and follows Hawke out into the corridor, finishing with a whisper as they creep back through their earlier steps. “I can think of a better use for-“

Hawke hisses at him in the dark kitchen as they pad along.  He offers a smile, though, in promise of the worship Anders is sure he’ll never understand.  And will undoubtedly take for as long as he’s allowed.  Every dim corner is brighter where those teeth suddenly appear for him, after all.  Anders shivers, suddenly, thinking of the teeth on his skin where he’d like them to go, to apply pressure under scarlet candlelight.  As Garrett pushes the kitchen door open, revealing the alley, Anders touches the raw skin of his jaw and comes away with a couple of dark beard hairs.

When he passes through the door Garrett holds open for him, Anders feels a smack on his ass.  The alley fills with hushed laughter in the dark where they run, where silvery moonlight doesn’t touch.


	3. Chapter 3

He can’t move from his spot.  There’s no way to make it back to his room unseen.  Between his spread knees, beyond his tightly clasped hands, Sebastian stares at the wood under his soft slippers.  He doesn’t want to be seen.  Not now.  Maker not now.  With a rueful twist of his mouth, he thinks all the stealth in the realm couldn’t hide his hardness.

A steadying breath.  Two or three more.  He envisions Andraste on the pyre, and he calls up the sight of his family.  Nothing works.  Every righteous image blows apart like sand under a breeze, becoming the men on the stairs, the grunt and thrust and the reverent light bathing them.

“Andraste guide me.”  He whispers, smiling to himself through his dismay, even as his hands work apart the laces.  None would fault him for it.  His flesh is unbelievably hot.  His fingers don’t tremble when he frees himself.  And Sebastian thinks this is every indication that he’ll never really belong here.  That when he closes his eyes, and slathers his palm with every ounce of spit he can muster, some part of him will always belong in the incongruous shaft of light with the sinners. . .instead of the shadows outside.

But in shadows he stays, where he can safely do . . .this.  The stairs under his ass groan as he leans back.  Sebastian hefts his balls, rolling, breath sharpening, and slides his hand lightly up to grip his cock.  He closes his eyes.

 _From above, they were only a thief and a vandal.  Until the moment he recognized them.  Until he decided to watch instead of warn.  Hawke.  The apostate.  He’d never be able to look at them again.  But of course, he hadn’t been able to look away.  Not once they started_.

The tip of his tongue sucks against his teeth, and Sebastian strokes. 

_How had they started?  A kiss, a command?  As Hawke had seated himself, dark hair stark on the stairs, the mage offered his cock so sweetly.  Not proud, and not hesitant.  So it was new?  Sebastian had held onto his breath, the very blood under his skin, as Hawke took the cock in his mouth.  The sound of it blistered him, raising the welt of memories, raising his own member._

He pulls back on his cock, further each time, until his wrist and forearm bang the bones of his hip.  It’s abuse he’s always needed, long before this.  A hissing whine whistles from the grimace of his lips, and Sebastian watches himself.  There is a satisfying contrast where the cream-colored parts meet others that have been sun-browned.  He lifts away his sleepshirt, free hand grappling upward to find a nipple.  Void take him, it feels amazing.  When he pinches, twists, the hand at his cock goes tighter. 

_Anders.  No, the apostate.  Impaled and groaning into the space that Sebastian couldn’t see.  With his forehead on the banister, though, he felt the vibration of it.  He’d squeezed his eyes shut when Hawke moaned into the mage’s back.  Willed himself not to desire the smell of it in his nose.  And watched from above as the apostate rode with fevered jerks._

Sebastian opens his eyes in the darkened part of the stairwell, pausing to lick his palm again, tasting the heat and rawness he’s produced.  When he works the head of his cock, smearing spit and the drizzle of anticipation, he thinks of Hawke’s face.  How he’d thrown his head back, and the joyous way he’d dragged the mage against his chest.  And Sebastian had been able to see so much more, then.  As if it had been a display for him all along.  Which it would never be.  So he takes this; his own stolen pleasure in hardened strokes, and a brief pinch of his sack to make himself sweat more fully.

His thumb sweeps in an punishing curve under the ridge of his cockhead, and Sebastian groans quietly down into his own chest.  What he sees is Anders, spread open below him, spent cock and sated eyes.  And the ceaseless thrust beneath him.  Blonde and black. Light and the shadow under it, stuffing it roughly with flesh and breath.

Cock poised, swollen and seized, Sebastian makes a small sound in his throat.  Something like the happy bounce of Hawke’s upturned face in the fall of light.  But, he himself is always just outside of it.  Sebastian grunts, free hand going to the railing as his hips rise to meet the pound of his racing palm.  He comes to the memory of them, joined and splayed on the stairs, pleasure emptying from one to the other.  And the desperately intimate rumble of male voices afterward.

Sebastian collapses, not bothering to watch where he’s spent himself.  It matters less than how sparked and empty he feels all at once.  His head lolls on the steps, dust jumping up to catch his nose.  They seemed so perfect at the end.  In the burble of his memories, Sebastian tries to recall if any arms held him so dear after he’d ravished or been ravished.  Were there even a few salty kisses or affectionate, saltier murmurings afterward?  He tries to forget that _he’d_ never offered any.

As he stuffs himself back into his pajamas, too roughly, he decides to consider it a moment’s weakness. A bitter longing in the face of debauchery.  The Maker knows the difference between action and purity of thought, of intent.  Even if he himself is sometimes blind to it.  Sebastian heaves onto his feet, swaying, and grips the railing.  This walk back to his room, he thinks, will be easier not for the relief he’s applied but for the Maker’s comfort in all things.  Even in the crass and bodily things.

For a few moments he forgets the sight of them, and can reasonably promise not to return to this memory.  But, as he looks down at the milky spray on the toe of his slipper, stopping to rub it away on the back of his calf, the realist in Sebastian creeps out. 

It’s the taste of his own palm under his tongue, that does it.  The part that won’t be denied, even here.  And he’ll be returning to the stairwell whether he likes it or not.  Maker help him, he likes it beyond measure.


End file.
